She sighed and escorted Princess Eleanor to her chamber.
The trestle tables groaned under the weight of the food Lady Avicia provided that evening. Silver plates held the trenchers of bread, set amid pastries filled with chicken, venison, salmon, and eel. The mixed aroma of onions, garlic, carrots, artichokes, peas, and potatoes wafted through the hall, filled with over a hundred people, many of them eating seated on the stone floors, Avicia having wisely rolled up the carpets to prevent them from being soiled.
“Indeed a royal feast,” Edward said as servants carried in huge platters of roasted stag, cut into quarters, crisped, and larded. He watched, rubbing his hands in anticipation, as one of the cooks poured a hot, steaming pepper sauce over the stag.
“And such a wealth of vegetables, Lady Avicia,” Eleanor said.
“The vegetables are from Camberley’s own gardens,” Lady Avicia said. “Chandra has nearly made the garden her own.”
“Not the garden,” Chandra said, “merely the weeds.”
“It is one and the same thing,” Avicia said.
As if on cue, Lady Avicia’s specially hired cook ushered in three servants who were carrying an enormous platter. Lord Hugh, grinning widely, stepped forward, eyed the huge pastry, and slashed it open with his dagger. A score of small swallows fluttered out and flew wildly about the hall, amid the men’s shouts and the ladies’ cries. Eventually, they winged to the crossbeams and to safety.
When he was sated with food and wine, Edward sat back in his chair with a satisfied groan.
“Do you wish more wine, sire?” Lord Hugh asked.
“Perhaps,” Jerval said, “Prince Edward will finally tell us his real reason for his visit to Camberley.”
Edward grinned at him. “You know, Jerval, why I am here. I want you to come with me to Tunis, to join King Louis and fight the heathen in Outremer.”
“The Holy Land,” Jerval said to Chandra.
“A crusade?”
“Aye, my lady,” Edward said. “I have taken my vow before God, as have many others. It is a holy cause and we will not fail. But we must leave soon, before winter sets in and makes travel impossible. Join me, Jerval, and bring as many men as Camberley can spare.”
“How many men does Louis command?” Lord Hugh asked.
“Well over ten thousand. Although our numbers will not be so impressive, together we can crush the Saracens.”
“I have heard it told,” Jerval said, “that the Saracen sultan, Baibars, commands an army in the hundreds of thousands.”
“Aye, it is true. But I am convinced, as is King Louis, that our cause will bring the other kings of Christendom to our aid.”
“King Louis failed miserably in his first effort,” Lord Hugh said sharply. “He was captured, ransomed, and released back to France, weak and old before his time.”
Eleanor said quietly, “But, my lord, his spirit inspires the most profound loyalty and admiration in Christendom, and fear in its enemies. The Saracens fear us, and our God.”
“It will be a costly venture,” Jerval said.
“Aye,” Edward agreed, “but think of the glory and honor we will gain in serving God by ridding the Holy Land of its heathen.”
“It is a request that I must not answer quickly,” Jerval said quietly, closing his hand over Edward’s arm.
The talk continued, but Chandra wasn’t listening. She had never been out of England; indeed, the Scottish border was the farthest she had ever traveled from Camberley, and that journey was not a pleasant memory. She remembered her father telling her of the mighty Templars, a fierce military order as skilled in the art of finance as in that of fighting, and of the Saracens, who were threatening the very existence of the Kingdom of Jerusalem. If only she were a man, a knight, to be free to join Prince Edward. To go to the Holy Land—ah, it was a dream, a magnificent dream.
Lord Hugh said suddenly, “My daughter-in-law is talented, sire. Would you care to hear her perform?”
The talk of the crusade was over. Chandra looked briefly at Jerval and saw his brow furrowed in thought.
Edward called out, “Aye, let Chandra play and sing, and then I can retire to my bed to dream about her.”
“You have eaten so much, my lord,” Eleanor said, “I wager it is nightmares you’ll have.”
Chandra’s lyre was fetched and she settled it on her lap, running her fingers lightly over the strings. She sang of King Richard and his final battle with the great Saladin, a song she herself had written. Her eyes sparkled as the notes rose to a crescendo at Richard’s victory, then fell muted and sad at the treachery that imprisoned him, far away from England, in the dark dungeons of Leopold of Austria.
There was silence for a brief moment when she had finished; then Edward leaned forward in his chair and said, his voice low and serious, “My great-uncle taught the heathen that the Christian God would not be denied, that our Lord makes us strong and brave in battle. I thank you for your tribute.”
Eustace called out, “Ah, sire, she is a warrior, do you not remember?”
Edward’s Plantagenet-blue eyes lightened. “Tell me, then, my lady, what other talents do you possess?”
“I joust, though I do not have a man’s strength. I hunt. I am good with a knife. And, sire, I should not be surprised if I could best you on the archery range.”
Edward looked taken aback; then he threw back his head and gave way to booming laughter.
“A soft, delicate girl best me?” Edward wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I admire your wit, my lady.”
“I was not jesting, sire.”
“Chandra.”
She twisted about to see her husband’s face, his eyes narrowed on her face. She saw the anger in his eyes even though his voice, saying her name, had been soft, gentle almost. She looked down at her slippers. She had not meant to flout him. She hated herself at that moment—worried that she had unwittingly flouted a man, flouted her husband, who was a man and her master. Oh, God, she was becoming nothing at all.
Jerval rose abruptly to his feet, his hand closing tightly about Chandra’s arm. “My wife is tired, my lord.”
“And you, my lord,” Eleanor said to her husband, “have drunk too much wine.”
“Nay,” Edward said, his eyes resting with laughter on Chandra’s face. He rose and slowly pulled a heavy emerald ring from his finger. “If you, my lady, can indeed beat me, the ring is yours. And will you, Jerval, give your colors to your wife so she may wear them on her sleeve?”
Chandra heard a gasp from Lady Avicia.
“You have to accept me in my wife’s stead, sire,” Jerval said. His fingers tightened over her wrist. “Tell him that it is so, Chandra.”
She wanted to howl, to curse every foul word she’d heard since she was a little girl, to tell her husband and the world that she wasn’t a useless bit of nothing. But he knew that. He didn’t care. He didn’t want that girl as his wife. She said, “Indeed, sire, it is so.”
She watched Edward slide the ring back onto his finger, saw Eleanor tug on his sleeve. He leaned down to hear her softly spoken words. When he straightened, he said, “Perhaps, then, my lady, we can speak again on the morrow.”
Not two hours later, a messenger arrived from Oldham, from Mark. The Scots had attacked the demesne farms and killed many of Sir Mark’s people. Retribution for Alan Durwald’s murder, it was said. And Oldham itself would be next. There was anger and fear in the woods, both in equal measure.
Chandra rode at the rear of the thirty men who left Camberley within the next hour. There was a full moon. It was late, very late. She thought of Mary, and what the messenger had told her. She’d known there was no choice at all, despite what her husband would probably say, despite what he would do to her. He would never forgive her, she knew, but she had no choice. Mary, the messenger had said, was begging to her come. She needed her.
She waited until they were a mere mile from Oldham before she rode up beside her husband.
At first he did not pay her
any attention, his eyes straight ahead, his brow furrowed in thought.
“I will be very careful,” she said. “You need not worry about me. Mary is afraid, perhaps even in danger. I need to help her.”
Jerval slewed around in his saddle, not wanting to believe what he was seeing with his own eyes.
“I can weave, I can mend your tunics, I can weed the vegetable gardens. It is time to let me do what I was trained to do. I can help you. Truly, I had no choice but to come.”
“I don’t believe this,” Jerval said, slapping his gauntleted hand to his thigh. “I just don’t.” He wanted to strangle her in that moment.
“I’m here only because of Mary. She needs me. The messenger told me she is very afraid, and she asked me to come to Oldham. She is the only reason I am here. She is very afraid, both for Oldham and Mark.”
“You will not fight.”
“I know. I came to be with Mary.”
When they arrived at Oldham, Mark was preparing to ride out with his men. He was leaving six men to guard Oldham keep. “You have made excellent time. I thank you, Jerval. We hear that the Scots have ridden north. We are going after them. I cannot allow this to remain unpunished.”
“We will ride with you.” Jerval turned to his wife. “You will remain here, with Mary.” He paused a moment, then smiled an evil smile. “Aye, you will protect the lady of Oldham. Didn’t you say that was the only real reason you came?”
“Aye.” He’d believed she’d lied to him. She hadn’t. They rode into the inner bailey. Chandra leapt off her horse and ran to Mary, who was standing on the wide steps to the Great Hall, pale, her hands clasped over her belly.
Chandra didn’t hesitate. She pulled Mary to her, stroking her hands over her back. “It will be all right. There are enough men. Jerval and Mark will catch them, and it will be over. I will not leave you. Come inside now; you must rest.”
“You look like a warrior again.”
“Aye, I am your warrior, here to guard you.”
“Thank you, Chandra, for coming. Was Jerval angry?”
“Only for the last mile.”
“Well, that is an improvement.”
“I didn’t show myself until then.”
“Ah.”
Chandra shrugged. “It matters not. Now, we have six men to guard the keep?”
“And you, Chandra, and you.”
It was nearly dawn when Chandra, who had finally fallen into a light sleep, awoke to a strange gurgling sound. It was deep and low and it sounded like—She jerked fully awake, her knife in her hand, realizing that what she’d heard was the sound of a man choking to death on his own blood. A man usually didn’t choke to death by accident.
It took her but an instant to realize the truth. The Scots weren’t headed north with Mark and Jerval on their heels. They’d circled back. They were right here, and somehow they’d gotten into the keep.
Jerval said, looking up at the bright moon, “We have come too far. There is no sign of them. It isn’t right.”
Mark sniffed the air. “It’s cold, too cold,” he said, “and I don’t like this either. It doesn’t smell right. You’re right. The Scots aren’t ahead of us. I know it.”
“Then where are they?”
“I don’t know, but they’re not in that copse of trees yon.”
“They wanted retribution for Durwald’s death—that is what you told me.”
“Aye, one of our own men-at-arms told me that, said a bandit had told him to tell me that. That this was their first onslaught, that soon, not long from now, perhaps in the dead of winter, they would return and they would drive us from Oldham and torch the keep.”
“What was an Oldham man-at-arms doing at a demesne farm? Wasn’t that where the Scots were?”
“Aye. He fancies the daughter. He was there wooing her when the Scots attacked.”
“Why didn’t they steal any cattle?”
“If it was revenge they wanted this time, as my own man told me, why would they bother with cattle? Herding cattle would slow them down, give us a better chance to catch up with them. No, they just wanted to strike us hard, quickly, then retreat. Vengeance, that’s what it is.”
Jerval said slowly, “I wonder why they had this man-at-arms tell you of their plans.”
“To boast of their prowess, I suppose. After they stabbed my man in the shoulder, they must have realized it would make an excellent jest to send him to me and tell me what had happened and what they planned for the future.”
Jerval was shaking his head as he said, “It doesn’t make sense, Mark. Why would they give you warning of their intent? No, it simply doesn’t ring true to me. Wasn’t there another demesne farmer who managed to get to Oldham to tell you what was happening?”
Mark nodded. “Both my man-at-arms and the farmer managed to make it to the keep, my man first.”
“Where is your man-at-arms? I would speak to him.”
“As I said, he—Alaric—was covered in blood, unable to fight. He just told us we must hurry, that the Scots hadn’t gotten too far, that they’d believed him very badly wounded, and thus he couldn’t get to me quickly. He was too ill to come and so he remained behind.”
And there was the answer, staring him in the face. He was an idiot. He’d moved too quickly, hadn’t really thought about the attack, about the man-at-arms’ words, hadn’t weighed the possibilities, hadn’t really assessed the Scots’ intent, and he’d been brought low.
Dear God, Chandra was at Oldham. He’d left her there himself to guard Mary, to sit with her and give her milk and pat her hand. Aye, he’d thought she would be safe, and there would be no danger for her. By the saints, he should be hanged for his stupidity.
She was there with naught but six men.
Jerval jerked back on Pith’s reins, the destrier rearing on his hind legs. “We’re fools, Mark. Alaric, the man who stayed behind with his wound—he stayed in the keep?”
“Aye, he did. Why wouldn’t he?”
“I think he’s a traitor.”
“Oh, God, you don’t really think that it was all a ruse, do you?”
“He’s a traitor,” Jerval said again. “It was a plan to get you away from Oldham, and me as well since you sent a messenger to me. We are bloody fools.” Jerval turned in his saddle and yelled to the men, “We’ve been betrayed! Back to Oldham!” And all he could think about was his wife, so brave it frightened him, unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds, ready to face down the devil himself, willing to die for Mary. She was there with a traitor, and the Scots.
CHAPTER 22
Chandra quickly pulled on her woolen cap, stuffing her hair beneath. She stood slowly, her knife in one hand, her sword in the other, looking around. There was no one in the Great Hall save her and Mary. The servants were up in the solar, the six guards in the bailey or on the ramparts. She walked quietly toward the front doors, out of habit looking right and left, ready, her muscles bunched, her heart pounding, but her mind was cold and sharp. There was only silence now, and the first soft gray light of dawn pearling in the quiet air through the open front doors to the Great Hall. Chill morning air also seeped through the open front doors, shifting the silent air within. Oh, God, she thought, the front doors were open.
The doors should be closed, the heavy wooden and steel bars firmly in place, but they weren’t.
Someone had opened them and she hadn’t heard a thing. Mary was seated in a chair at the back of the hall near the huge fireplace, her cheek pillowed on her palms, finally asleep. No, Chandra didn’t want to awaken her yet. Maybe there was nothing wrong, maybe—
The six men-at-arms were all outside in the bailey—they had to be, aye, on the walls, watching, searching all around the keep for any sign of the enemy. Surely they weren’t asleep. There was too much at stake here. Their lives for one thing. There’d been no attack. If there had been, there would have been shouts, cries of warning, sounds of battle, but there’d been only that one death sound deep in the man’s throat. Where wa
s he? As for the servants, she didn’t know where they were, but none were here in the Great Hall. She’d believed the hall stingy in its size, but now, in the utter stillness, with that death sound still echoing in her ears, she believed it huge, filled with echoes and evil and danger, and she was alone, no one to help her.
When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she walked to where the front doors to the Great Hall were cracked open and gently shoved them outward. The man whose death sound she’d heard was lying there in his own blood, his eyes wide and staring. He’d been stabbed, then somehow managed to crawl this far. He’d wanted to warn them, but he hadn’t made it. He’d just died, and that meant the enemy was here, waiting, probably watching her, wondering how many men were within the keep.
No, she wasn’t alone, not any longer. The Scots had managed to get into the keep. Were all the six guards dead? She had to assume they were. What to do?
She held perfectly still, listening. She heard the sound of boots, not many, perhaps three men, coming toward the keep, over the uneven cobbles in the inner bailey. Soon they would see the dead man on the steps; they would see the front doors open.
She didn’t have time to get the doors closed, and it wouldn’t have mattered in any case because she wasn’t strong enough by herself to place the huge bars into their thick wooden slots on the doors.
She ran back to Mary and shook her, saying quickly, “Don’t be afraid, Mary, but there is trouble. I need you to get beneath this trestle table. The cloth on it is long and will hide you. Quickly, quickly.”
“But, Chandra, our men—”
“They’re dead. Hurry, Mary, you must hurry. You must protect your babe.”
Once Mary was beneath the trestle table, Chandra crept back toward the front doors of the Great Hall. More footsteps, at least six men, moving quickly now, with purpose. They must have discovered that there was no one in the Great Hall except two women. There was no more reason for them to hang back. How long had they been inside the walls?
She stood there, knife and sword raised, waiting, waiting.